December Solstice
by Newbie Girl Writer
Summary: Griffith's eyes remain blank and Guts fears that this winter will be especially hard. Guts/Griffith Guts/Casca Griffith/Casca
1. Winter

What the Winter Brings

_Cold_

It is the first thing that Griffith notices when he awakens. It strikes him but a second later that it is not an unpleasant coldness that surrounds him.

Even now, he can still remember the many nights spent curled up in his own waste in a dungeon so deep beneath the earth that even the cold had felt different. Now as he lies here with his eyes closed, the chill that bites at his skin feels strangely welcoming. For one thing, it _bites_, but it does not seep into his bones as he expects it to. Instead, the nimble fingers of frost merely travel skin deep, gliding about him in an almost comforting fashion.

Griffith decides that he likes this feeling far better than the poisonous chill that had once slithered through his bones, clogging and suffocating until he had been sure that death was but a breath away.

He drifts back to sleep, imagining chilly hands swinging him from side to side, returning him safely back into the realm of dreams.

* * *

Were his hands always this small?

It is the first thing that Guts notices when he redresses the bandages on Griffith's frail wiry fingers. Months of being locked up have made his hands so pallid that Guts fears to look directly at them lest he be blinded.

Griffith had once reminded Guts of winter with his pale complexion and blue eyes the colour of the sky reflected on ice. Ice reflects everything and yet when Guts observes their reflections, he concludes that the ice seems to add its very own essence to the images that it shines back onto the world. They appear colder and sharper as though the ice had decided a long time ago that people were much too soft and dull when left to their own devices and thus, needed to be shown the potential that they could reach by looking upon their own reflections.

He'd once shared this observation with Griffith who had in turn, observed that Guts must have had far too much to drink for one night.

A twitch brings him back from the murky shadows of his past. He looks down to see one of those cold blue eyes peering up at him from beneath a frame of black lashes. It puzzles Guts still how Griffith could have such dark lashes when his hair was so white. A small smile paints the tired cherub face, before being quickly replaced by a pained expression as his leader attempts to rise onto his elbows.

"Easy now, you've got too many wounds to even think about getting up," Guts warns, his voice the perfect combination of stern and concern.

He receives a blink in response, the leader merely nodding his consent before drifting back to sleep.

* * *

"Thank you."

Guts looks up from his work to see Griffith smiling quietly up at him from beneath the blankets. His cheeks are red and his breathing from where Guts sits seems laboured.

He walks over and places his hand on the man's forehead, recoiling at the heat that pulses beneath Griffith's sweat soaked skin.

"Shit."

* * *

For three days and three nights the fever rides its course through him, bringing forth those terrifying memories of that dank grey dungeon beneath the earth. He screams in his sleep and outside, the entire Band of the Hawk cringe at what has become of their fallen leader.

Casca and Guts take turns tending to him, giving him the occasional sip of water when he seems lucid enough and placing wet rags on his forehead in a desperate attempt to bring down the fever.

On the third day, in their most anxious moment when Griffith refuses to stop screaming, his voice cracking from its own vain attempt to rid its master of his wretched demons, does Guts swallow whatever pride he has left to pull down the covers and accompany his fallen leader.

Griffith had once said that it was a woman's duty to keep the man warm, but when Casca offers, Guts finds himself vehemently refusing. He owes this to Griffith. Casca who has always vowed to be Griffith's sword, despite never being acknowledged for doing so, was not the one who had left that fateful winter's night.

Besides, Griffith was never one to shy away from physical touches, at least where Guts was concerned. It occurs to him then, that Griffith finds a sort of comfort from being near him. With that thought in mind, he brings the smaller man closer, tucking his head into the crook of his neck.

For the first time in three days, the band sleeps peacefully.

* * *

"I want to go outside."

Guts snorts awake to the sight of Griffith's amused face peering up at him. He notes that the red splotches on his cheeks have subsided.

"I wish to go outside," Griffith says again, looking directly at Guts with a determination in his eyes that Guts has not seen (and thought he never would) since their last duel before his departure.

He feels relieved and somewhat horrified at the same time. He is relieved because these few months of scorching torture, though damaging, have not broken Griffith as thoroughly as he had initially believed.

Guts however, is also scared because he fears what Griffith will do next.

It scares him to think of how quickly Griffith's dreams had turned to ash. He often finds himself wondering at night whether or not his friend's actions had really been spurred by his sudden departure. It astounds him still how deeply affected Griffith seemed to have been by his leave.

"Guts?"

He looks down at the man currently taking up his thoughts; Griffith looks tired with lines and purple bruises beneath hungry blue eyes that are all together too large on his thin, gaunt face. His once beautiful long hair had been shorn short during his time in the dungeons and was now hanging in patches, limp and thin atop his skull-shaped head.

Despite this, Guts is happy. Appearances were just appearances and Griffith, with time and care, would be back to looking pretty and healthy in no time.

_Pretty?_

"You're not listening are you?" Griffith huffs, eyes slanting in mock annoyance at Guts' unresponsive figure.

In truth he has heard every word and is now merely choosing his own words. This is a skill that he has only just recently acquired. It would not do to think so rashly when it was Griffith's life on the line. That had been Casca's scolding, but Guts, in a state of worry and panic, readily agreed that it would be best that they tread lightly around him for the time being.

So it was with some contemplation that he says:

"No."

He has never admitted, and probably never will, to being particularly adept at the skill.

This earns him a frown. Griffith is no fool. He is aware, has been for quite some time, of the near silent shift in power that has been slowly making itself known between the two of them even before their untimely duel those many months ago.

"It is not in your place to disobey orders Guts."

He wishes to test this modification, to see how Guts will react.

"I don't think it's in your place to be giving any-"

Griffith nods internally, so his assumptions had been correct.

"-but if you insist on pushing yourself, I'm sure as hell you won't let anyone stop you."

And once again, he finds himself baffled by the anomaly that is Guts.

* * *

The walk, _if you could even call it that_ Guts thinks drily, is slow and laborious. Griffiths' legs are all together too thin to support even his own measly weight. It is night time and most of the band members are asleep save for the ones on guard duty. Corkus and Rickert turn when they hear their footsteps.

Rickert is the first to get up, dashing towards them with a beaming grin fitting of a youngster his age. Guts finds himself sometimes envious of the boy's childish innocence. Rickert at the early age of eleven has found a family that Guts can only wish that Gambino had been able to provide.

Griffith smiles warmly, flinching only briefly when Rickert tackles him with a massive hug around his waist. He bends down and combs through the boy's yellowy hair as he begins to sob into his stomach.

Guts notes that he goes about comforting Rickert as well as he does everything else in life, hushing cries of "I missed you" and brushing over all of the boy's worries with a reassuring voice.

For despite his innocence, Rickert is still a child who kills and Guts is all too familiar with his need to be reassured.

Blue eyes peer up at him and a small smile graces chapped lips.

Guts tightens his hold on Griffith's waist.

* * *

Corkus watches them from afar. He knows that he ought to go as well, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Griffith even from this distance looks tired and ill, and Corkus needs time, time to realize and accept the fact that Griffith is not the man he had once been.

He knows that he is not the only one who has realized this. He knows despite how hard he tries to convince himself and the people around him otherwise, that Griffith has changed. Of course, he does not doubt that the man is still capable of miracles, he only fears that Griffith has lost the resolve to perform them.

Corkus knows how it feels to depend on others and to have your views shifted so drastically by them. It is a dangerous endeavour, he thinks in his own world-wearied mind, to place your trust in the hands of men.

* * *

Rickert chats amiably, filling him in on everything that he has missed in the past few months. They have returned back to the prairie schooner where Griffith lies comfortably against rucksacks filled with beans and a blanket draped over his thin frame.

"We were all really worried...A lot of people left after the attack...Did you know that Casca is a terrible cook?"

Rickert's happy voice fills the silence. He sits next to his leader, dutifully reporting everything that his frazzled mind can recall of those ten bleak months. Griffith smiles dutifully back, playing his part in this game of make believe. Rickert needs this and no matter how hard he tries to deny it, somewhere deep inside his own tired heart, he needs it too.


	2. Getting Colder

Winter arrives in a flurry of white flakes. The chill in the wind continues to bite at his skin, but it feels harsher now. He spends these days either curled up in the wagon or taking small walks outside with Guts. His strength is slowly returning, though he fears it will never be what it once was. Caska always sets out the largest plate during mealtimes for him. It makes Griffith feel both guilty and frightened when a member of the band brings him food.

(Rickert had been right, Casca truly is a dreadful cook)

He knows that he must get stronger, that they depend on him, but sometimes he fears that he may need someone to depend on too.

Guts looks up from where he sits, polishing his sword. Griffith's eyes are glazed over as they peer out into the drifting snow. There is an air of something akin to sadness around the man that comes not only from his melancholy appearance. His snow white hair has grown longer, his blue eyes more solemn.

Guts fears that Griffith is beginning to fade.

He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, where that icy determination has gone.

"Please stop staring."

The voice is sad, quiet and contemplative, a far cry from the Griffith Guts had once known. It makes him feel inexplicably angry inside seeing him like this.

"Is that an order?"

He lowers his head, drawing the blanket that Pippin had given him earlier that morning tighter around his frame. He wishes for the snow to disappear, for summer to envelope him in its warm embrace.

_No_

"Yes."

* * *

Casca feels hopeless.

She hates cooking, even Judeau and Pippin are far more proficient at the skill than she is. She remembers a time when there had once been women around the camp who had prepared meals and completed other mundane chores for them, but they have all long since vanished.

Griffith had once told her that it was a women's duty to cook. She ought to have been offended by that, but instead his words and the way he had spoken them with that small quiet smile of his had made her feel proud, proud to be a woman. It is one of the many reasons why Casca admires him so. Griffith has the ability to manipulate insult into compliment and now...

...now Casca can see just how valuable the art of cookery really is.

She tries her best to emulate the work of those mercenary women before her, but Casca is unlike the rest of them. Perhaps that is why she fights in battles, to prove a point, to show that women could be just as strong as men.

_If it were only that simple._

Casca knows that that is untrue. She knows that she is no feminist. Her reasons for fighting are far more womanly, _humanly_ than that. Humans love to love, just as much as they love to hate.

She had loved Griffith, she believes she still does. It had been her reason for fighting. She fought so that Griffith might trust her, so that she might become his sword. For despite all of his splendour and magnificence, Griffith is but a young man, a child really. Casca cannot begin to even fathom the staggeringly heavy burden that rests on his thin, proud shoulders.

On the other hand, Casca isn't blind either, she has come to understand the pressures of power, the pressure to be perfect. How could anyone expect to be such a thing when they come from a species so sullied that even their definition of perfection was flawed? There is no such thing as ideal or perfect, at least not in people. There is only love, love which spawns hatred, despair and pleasure. Then there is indifference which comes from a lack of love.

Love and devotion towards Griffith had been _her _reason for fighting, but now...

"Mind if I sit with you for a while?" Guts doesn't bother waiting for an answer, flopping down onto the log next to her.

...now she is unsure.

"He's asleep by the way, took awhile but the guy's exhausted. You done with that? I'll go bring him some when you're finished or maybe you could do it, that is...if you're not busy cooking." He eyes the pot with a suspicious stare.

Casca rolls her eyes,_ typical Guts_.

"Stop with that look, you should be grateful that I even bother taking the time to feed all of you."

"You mean poison right?"

She shoots him a half-hearted glare. Guts, the man with no dream who lives each day just to survive onto the next, swinging his sword from battle to battle.

To think she had once believed in those words.

She leans her head against his shoulder. Unlike Griffith, who has always seemed so faraway and untouchable, Guts is right here next to her, a warm and powerful presence that soothes her senses.

Humans love to love and Casca is no exception.

"It's not like I don't appreciate your cooking, but there _is_ a difference between appreciation and satisfaction."

"Satisfied my ass. It'll taste good this time, just you watch." She smiles. Bantering with Guts, she likes it.

"I'll let Griffith be the judge of that. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job of hiding it, but I can tell when he doesn't like something."

She frowns at that. She doesn't like failing, especially when that failure directly affects Griffith.

"I do appreciate everything you've done for us though."

She looks up, confused.

"Your cooking among...other things," Guts makes a non-committal gesture with his right hand, his left arm wrapping itself around Casca's waist.

This picture that they paint together, it feels so right.

Humans love to love. However, in exchange for doing so they also expect (sometimes subconsciously) to receive something in return for expressing such a taxing emotion.

And Casca is no exception.

* * *

He awakens to something that smells frighteningly similar to a charred wood squirrel.

"Griffith, time for supper." A soft voice has him sitting up, rubbing the sleep away from his tired eyes.

Casca.

He hasn't seen her much in the past few weeks. That's to be expected though, the Band of the Hawk are a mercenary group now and mercenaries need florins to survive. Her and Guts and what's left of their men have been fighting to earn whatever spare coins they can get.

Griffith hates seeing them go off to battle while he lies here in this stuffy old wagon. He hates feeling so inadequate, he hates the cold thoughts that begin to creep into his mind on those days when nothing else is present to occupy his attention.

_A little boy with a knights doll, a child playing war in a back alleyway. _

_A fire. This is war, there is no spectator seat on the battlefield. _

_Am I a terrible person?_

"Guts says you don't like my cooking, but I want you to try and finish it. You have to get your strength up."

_What are you thinking? This is the path you chose isn't it?_

"Why?"

Casca looks up, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"What do you plan on doing? Why do I _have to_ get stronger?"

He feels rage bubbling inside of him. He hates this feeling. the worries that grip at the edges of his mind, condensing together into a chilling fear. He draws the blanket tighter around himself. His dream, the deaths, tugging at his mind, his heart, looming closer and closer.

_It's too cold._

A nervous laugh brings him out of his thoughts. Casca is staring at him with a most distressing expression.

"The band will be leaving Midland soon. We plan on heading south, to Vritanis. We've been getting work here and there, but it's not much and the King's bound to come after us sooner or later. Vritanis might be better, we should go, but only if you think so too." The last part is rushed as though she is unsure now of what to say to him.

"And even if you don't want to leave, you must get stronger. You-we're not safe in Midland anymore so...so you must, for your sake, for everybody's sake."

He can see the pity in her eyes and it makes his blood curl.

"Stop it," he whispers.

"I'm sorry, but it's true. If you don't want to go then I won't either. I owe you that much at least."

He looks up, surprised. There is conviction in her eyes and he knows that she means it.

_This is the path you chose isn't it? The path to your dream._

She and Guts are so alike in that sense. The thought brings a bittersweet taste into his mouth. He eyes the plate she has given him, how Casca managed to make vegetable broth smell so rancid, he will never know.

Nonetheless he is grateful.

"We should go."

* * *

She leaves Griffith to pick at his dinner. There are things to do, a journey to plan and thoughts that she has to sort out before doing it all. A flutter in her stomach stops her mid-step.

This winter, Casca believes, will prove to be especially difficult.

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**Please review :)**


	3. Radiation Fog

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"Are you alright?"

He watches her with a quizzical expression. Casca seems...distracted. He gets the feeling that whatever fret that has been plaguing her thoughts lately must be serious. Besides, Casca rarely lets anything sidetrack her from her work.

"Fine," comes the terse reply.

He frowns. It most definitely must be something serious if she feels obligated to keep it from him. Perhaps it has something to do with Guts or...

"We'll be leaving soon, make sure you get your men ready. Getting down to Vritanis will take at least a fortnight's worth of travel by horse."

"Yes ma'am." He gives her a mock salute, raising his hand to his forehead.

She smiles. He likes it when she smiles.

'It's getting awful cold, we best be sure to get a head's start before winter really starts setting in."

"Yeah, we should get going as soon as possible," she agrees, a thoughtful expression on her pretty face.

Neither of them say anything after that. He focuses his attention back onto the horse in front of him, brushing it's coat with gentle methodical strokes.

A beat.

"Judeau?"

"Yeah?" He looks up from his work.

"Do you think going to Vritanis is the right decision? I mean, I know we're not safe in Midland, but who's to say that things will be better in Vritanis? I've been hearing word going around that they're on the brink of war. Once we get there, what'll happen? Plus it's almost winter and Griffith is still recovering and-"

He brings his hands up, effectively bringing her short rant to a halt. She looks up at him with a worrying expression. He returns it with a reassuring smile.

"I think we should go. Staying in Midland is definitely not an option unless we want to stay in hiding forever. If we stay, we'll eventually be killed, Vritanis is our best bet. It's safer there, I'm sure of it." He gives her a resolute nod, indication of his certainty regarding her verdict.

"Besides you've never made one wrong decision in the last ten months, don't start doubting yourself now."

She smiles back at him, her shoulders drooping slightly as she lets out a sigh.

He notes that it sounds neither relieved nor reassured.

Something terrible, he fears, must have happened.

* * *

He walks shakily around the wagon. They're pitching camp here for the night. He feels it's best that he stretches his legs out for a bit while he still has the chance. There will be more than enough days to spend in the wagon once they leave for Vritanis.

He notices them before they notice him.

Her and him.

Him and her.

His arms wrapped around her waist, their lips smashed together in a desperate kiss.

He feels as if a bucket of ice has been dumped on him. He watches them in morbid fascination, praying that this has all been just one huge misunderstanding, a mistake, that she had just tripped near him and their lips had accidently collided, willing them to pull apart.

When they do not, he turns away, gripping his arms tightly to one another.

When had this happened? When had they become so close? His mind is numb and before he knows it, there is red.

_When did I become so blind?_

This must not be allowed to continue, he decides.

* * *

"Are you alright?"

He frowns down at Griffith who has spent the last three minutes staring sullenly down at his own pale hands.

"It's too cold."

Guts hadn't expected a reply, but nonetheless he is quick to get up, closing the opening of the tent.

"That good?" He asks.

"Yes," Griffith smiles gratefully back up at him, drawing the thick quilt closer to his own body.

"We'll be leaving soon," he comments staring around the tent for his own bedding.

"Yes for Vritanis," comes the quiet reply.

"Yeah," he smiles when his head touches the pillow. He's exhausted and more than ready for sleep to take over.

A cold hand on his stomach has him snapping his eyes wide open. The tent is dark but he can feel Griffith's soft warm breaths on the side of his neck, something that seems strangely like a kiss being planted on his jaw, and boney ribs rubbing against his side.

"You were always so warm Guts."

He stays absolutely still as those soft lips press about his face from his cheeks to his nose before finally resting on his own parted lips.

His heart begins to thump painfully in his chest, he can't think. Half of him wants to push that boney cold corpse off of him, to yell at Griffith because this is...it's...

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

It's disgusting, vile, humiliating. It's a disgrace...it...

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

...It feels so good.

He feels his own arms wrapping tenderly around the slender waist. In response, Griffith deepens the kiss, his thin hands fisting themselves into Guts' short hair and the whole thing feels _so_ good. Griffith's lips are so soft, his body so smooth and slender in Guts' arms.

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

In a spur of the moment decision, his head still filled with heat and sinful lust, he flips them over with surprising force.

A pained cry has him pulling away.

"It's nothing," Griffith is quick to respond, his breathing still heavy and his cheeks flushed a bright pink.

But the moment is lost and like an avalanche, reality comes crashing back down.

"I-I'm sorry," he says even though it had been Griffith who had started the whole damn thing. He doesn't bother waiting for a reply. With his body still hot from the kiss, he decides to leave the tent.

In his haste, Guts fails to notice the small devious smirk spreading slowly across his leader's face.

He always gets what he wants.

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	4. Blizzard

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On the day of their departure, a blizzard of snow and ice decorates the sky. It beats against the heavy folds of their wagon, forming thin delicate sheets of ice along the canvas, each piece threatening to crack under the slightest press of a finger.

To Casca it serves to be a rather fitting send-off, but she takes care, adding extra blankets over Griffith's thin frame. It would not do at all for him to get sick amidst this harsh weather.

These past few weeks have been focused solely on setting up provisions for their journey to Vritanis. There have been many, _too many _Casca notes, days spent making preparations ranging from simple, mundane tasks such as brushing horses and tracing maps to sharpening weapons and practising fighting formations.

_One should always be ready for a battle_, Griffith had once told her that.

Now with all planning and preparations completed, she is more than ready to leave Midland behind despite how terrifying the next leg of their journey might just prove to be. The storm is thick and heavy but they have endured worse. For now the long succession of carts and wagons mill slowly across the piling snow, the group meandering forward at an unhurried albeit substantial pace.

"Do you have any more blankets?" Casca is quick to oblige, grabbing the last quilt and draping it gently over Griffith's shivering frame. She notes that his body has been having a particularly hard time adjusting to the cold weather.

"Is that better?" He looks up at her with a tranquil smile.

"Yes, much better, thank you." She frowns, he's still shivering.

"Guts do you have any quilts?" She pokes her head out into the front of the prairie schooner where Guts is situated, silently steering the horses.

"Guts?" She calls again when there is no reply. It is then that she notices something off about her long time, battle companion.

From where she stands, Guts sits like a statue on the bench, his grip on the reins tight and a distant look on his tired face. For a second, Casca believes that he won't say anything, deciding to turn back when-

"He can take my coat if he wants, it's in that chest you were sitting on," he replies monotonously.

She frowns, noticing that he has been unusually quiet these past few days or at least quieter than Casca knows him normally to be. It's obvious that something's troubling him. Perhaps it is something to do with Griffith? Or maybe Guts too, has also been pondering over the probable implications that could arise from their decision to leave for Vritanis?

_Perhaps he suspects something? Does he know? _

_Impossible._

The question is on the tip of her tongue when, out of the blue, a harsh cough diverts her attention. Griffith sits hunched at the other end of the wagon, ragged gasps shaking his chest as he attempts, unsuccessfully, to stifle the hacking coughs, seeping like fireworks from his throat.

This makes Casca frown. She goes quickly to snatch Guts' coat from the chest and finds herself pleasantly surprised when her hand touches thick fur. Distantly, she remembers the short-lived time they had spent as nobles in Midland. Though Casca despises the snooty airs of royalty, she can't help but revel in their materialistic indulgences. The soft, plush coats, the silk stockings and the velvet dresses had all seemed so foreign on her battle-hardened warrior's body. Nonetheless she had been secretly elated at the idea of being the owner of such fanciful belongings. But now, now there is almost nothing left to serve as a token of that time, nothing but a simple night shirt that she had hastily put on beneath her armour. That had been just moments before the band was driven out of the very place that they had so tentatively begun calling home.

She gives a forlorn sigh at the thought before draping the thick fur coat over Griffith. As they begin drawing closer and closer to the border, Midland slowly becomes more and more like a pretty painting, etched in the back of her mind, a dream that she knows she shall return to time and time again in her slumber.

"You think we should stop?" She looks up from her quiet musings, noticing Guts staring at her from behind the thick flaps of the wagon.

"Yes, Griffith needs something to drink," she decides resolutely, taking her leader's hand and dragging him out of the mess of blankets. There is a well nearby and his coughing has yet to subside. She busies herself, taking a pail and dragging water up from the ground.

"Drink," she orders. For a moment, Griffith merely stares at her, an unrecognizable expression on his pale face. There is a tense silence that lasts just a moment too long and it makes Casca want to squirm. He keeps his eyes on her even after accepting the bucket, sipping silently with that strange look in his eyes. It scares her a bit, she can't tell whether he looks happy or angry.

She knows however, that he has been bothered, bothered by something that _she_ has done no less. Perhaps she has been too commanding these past few weeks, ordering him about as if he were a child. This makes her feel terrible, but not disappointed. She has been stressed and he has been ill. It had almost been instinct.

She shall have to try harder from now on.

When he finishes, she takes the bucket, scooping more water into it for their long journey. Once the pail is full, they begin heading back to the wagon, a strained silence poisoning the air between them.

They are about halfway there when the small throwing knife whizzes by, just a hair's length away from striking Casca in the head.

From the corner of her eye, there is a man, a man dressed completely in silk that Casca has never seen before. Cloth covers both his face and head, making his eyes look all the more frightening. What little armour he has on seems more for ornamental purposes than anything else, his baggy clothes swishing about him as he leaps at her. Even with his strange appearance, she does not hesitate, drawing her sword and switching into a fighting stance.

The mysterious man merely quirks his eyebrow in amusement.

"Kushan slut," he whispers in disdain before drawing his own sword. Except it is not a sword, at least not one Casca has ever seen before. There are three pointed blades on each handle instead of one, and he has two of them. They look almost like hands, hands made of knives as he lunges them at her. She is quick to dodge, striking her own sword at an opening. The man parries at the last second, his eyes dancing with delight. They continue like this for awhile and soon, Casca begins to feel uneasy. The man fights so differently from what she is used to and with only one sword she is at a disadvantage.

She can almost see the smirk in his eyes.

"A slut you may be, but a warrior, you are not." He swings his leg at her own. In another moment, she is on the ground, searching frantically for her sword. Upon feeling the familiar weight in her hand, she turns just in time to see a flurry of silk and horrendous black eyes lunging at her. Casca can see him getting closer, readying for the final blow. She tightens her hold on her own sword, her mind trying frantically to find an opening, all the while waiting for him to stab her with those sharpened claws.

It never comes.

In another second the strange warrior is doused in water, his surprise giving her just enough time to get up and strike him in the chest. A warrior he may be, but modest he most definitely was not, having ignored Griffith entirely to battle herself.

The creature is dead before he hits the ground. After a quick survey of their surroundings she turns to thank Griffith who stands next to her with an empty bucket in his hands.

Words of gratitude are forming on her lips when all of a sudden, her stomach lurches. She covers her mouth, stumbling a few steps away from him before sinking to the floor and emptying her stomach. She gags at the foul taste in her mouth, a new wave of nausea making her want to retch all over again.

"Casca!" An alarmed Griffith rushes shakily towards her side, his hand on her back, stroking soothing circles into her flesh.

"I'm alright," she insists once her stomach has settled. He gives her a disbelieving stare.

"Casca! Griffith!" They turn in time to see Guts and the rest of the band running towards them. She wipes her mouth discreetly, praying that they hadn't seen her spewing her guts out earlier.

Guts reaches them first, inspecting Griffith and then herself for injuries. From the silent rage on his face, she knows that he has seen everything, both the attack and the vomit that came afterwards.

"C'mon, let's get out of here," he says supporting both herself and Griffith on either side of his body, escorting them back to the wagon. The silence is even more tense, as they walk back. Thoughts from earlier begin invading her mind. She risks a glance at Guts' face, cowering at the anger and...fear? that clouds his eyes.

_No it can't be, I haven't said anything..._

_But then again..._

She takes another glance at his frightened face.

_Does he know?_

* * *

He sits silently, gazing sullenly at the makeshift campfire in front of him. They have already set up camp for the night and almost everyone, save for those on guard duty, was asleep. He feels tired, but the thoughts running through his head refuse to let him rest. On top of that, Casca is sick and now, he is also worried. She has been working far too hard these past few weeks.

"Can't sleep either?" He frowns, turning to see Griffith leaning silently against an oak tree, his white hair tied up and away from his face. He doesn't say anything, not when Griffith moves to sit next to him nor when he feels those cold hands touching his arm.

"Guts about that night, I'm-"

"You're what? Sorry for kissing me?" He smirks, turning to face Griffith, whose cheeks have gained a faint tinge of pink made all the more visible by the fire.

"To be honest, for some reason I don't believe that." Guts lets out a dry laugh, revealing more of his confusion than he had wanted.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Griffith sighs, "But I'm not sorry. You do know why people kiss each other do you not?" Guts frowns at that.

"There's more than one reason. You could have done it for love, lust or maybe it was just a ways to a means." He waves his arms slightly to further show his exasperation.

"Yes I suppose you're right about that too," Griffith frowns, "I believe however that I did it because I like you."

Guts inwardly scoffs at the answer, it's far too simple for a person like Griffith.

"Besides, you aren't mine anymore Guts, you've gone your own way. You've proven yourself. Even when I didn't want you to leave, you went against me, you went against my dream. Yet, despite what you did, I couldn't hate you for it. When you left, there was of course resentment, but mostly it was just confusion. When I was imprisoned, I couldn't stop thinking about you and...and..."

He turns and is shocked to see that same determined expression on Griffith's face. Though the air outside still beats with cold and ice, it is warm near the fire, a little bubble of heat protecting them from the harsh wind. Griffith's hand on his arm tightens.

"...and while I was there, I realized something. I realized that you were the first true friend that I've ever had."

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End file.
